The Grounded Mockingjay
by JazzEverLarkin
Summary: A little over a month after being dropped in 12, Katniss Everdeen is suffering in silence from PTSD and still unsure how she relates to Peeta Mellark, fellow Victor. This is the story of Katniss finding herself, finding her voice and discovering that there just might be something else worth fighting for. Canon. Imaginings of what happened in the untold months of Ch. 27, Mockingjay.
1. Chapter 1

**The Grounded Mockingjay**

**Part 1: Flightless**

* * *

><p><strong>1. Reach<strong>

It's been 6 weeks since they dropped me off in District 12. Mostly, I lay awake thinking until sleep forces itself upon me. Sometimes I think of all of those who died; the innocent bystanders, the victors, the war casualties…even our enemies. And District 12. Always, the people who were bombed to death in District 12. It's like a counting game trying to see how many of them I remember, how many I knew personally or spoke to, until I fall asleep. It is a morbid counting game of course, but it's almost become a strange comfort at this point. Something that I can always depend on; anyone who is gone tonight will still be gone by morning.

But more than anything, I think of all those who once belonged to me who are now gone: Prim, My mother…Gale. And Peeta. Always Peeta.

The difference is that everyone else is really gone. Prim is of course completely out of reach. Then there's my mother. She is closer because I could always call her, but I am sure that I would never know what to say. Really it's that I don't want to talk to her. I want to rest my head on her shoulder and cry. I want her to hold me in her arms and brush my hair. Tell me that I am just a girl. Her girl and not some Hunger Games-created monster. Not a mockingjay who's lost her ability to fly. But I know she never will. And the phone call can never give me that, so the phone just rests there in its beige bed taunting me.

Then there's Gale, who I have no desire to reach. His name hangs over me in a mist of pain, fear, and a twisted and unholy relief. Though I can't say what he means to me now, there is no denying that he was once so large a part of my life that thinking of him now is more than involuntary, it's ingrained.

But Peeta?

Peeta Mellark is just two houses down. So why is it that he is the one who feels farthest from my reach?

Like most nights, I wake up in the middle, and the only thing louder than the voices in my head, is the sound of my scream. But it's the name that I am screaming that startles me most.

"Peeta?!" My breath is ragged and I am sweating and feel a little sick as I realize that it was a dream. My black surroundings and the eerie glow of the moon make me immediately aware that I was asleep…dreaming.

The Hanging Tree.

Fit with two nooses, but Peeta's body hanging lifeless was the trees only occupant. His eyes were open staring down at me, filling me with that all too familiar emotion: Guilt. It's because of me that he was tortured. Because of me that he's a fire mutt now. But in the dream I couldn't cut him down. Shot arrow after arrow but every one missed and his eyes still stared down at me.

I shiver just thinking of it, and I try to calm myself the way Peeta used to. "It was only a dream Katniss. Just a dream." I feel crazy talking to myself this way. I also realize that maybe I am.

I whip the covers off my shivering legs and get out of bed. I wear a plain white t-shirt and a loose pair of light green pants that I think belonged to my mother. Reaching over to click on some light, I glance up and the clock on the wall tells me that it is 1:35 am, but it's of little consequence. I stand up, the floor cold beneath my feet sending chilly icicles stabbing into each toe, but my steps are still sure. I know that I am going to find him awake. To talk to him. After all, he is the only one who I have left who might have any answers. The only one I have left at all, really.

The smell of vodka hits my nose and I instinctively turn away from it. Haymitch's house is worse now than ever before. I think he got so used to having Gale's mother, as his maid that now he just tosses things into the floor, possibly imagining some fairy maid will come and pick them up. Gone is the pretense of any semblance of cognizance and instead Haymitch seems to relish in his filth now. Like some self-satisfied pig.

"Sweetheart!" Haymitch's voice trails out from the hallway, and I can't tell if I'm imagining things or if he is really here until he stumbles forward. His clothes look more unkempt than usual but his smile is fairly bright which is a good sign; Haymitch rarely smiles. "Couldn't sleep either I see? Being haunted by "The Ghosts of Hunger Games Past"?" he says with air quotes that seem out-of-place in his hands.

"Not exactly," I say, settling into the only un-covered cushion of the couch. "It's about…P-Peeta…" The words stumble in my mouth, his name unfamiliar to my dry tongue. Well, unfamiliar in consciousness, at least.

"What about him?" Haymitch says, his voice tired and ragged. He hasn't been to sleep at all, I see, noting the heavy bags beneath his eyes, the red web-like veins that cover them.

"It's just that I haven't spoken to him…at all. Not since we've been home really. And I don't really know how to." I say. I recall the few times that I saw him orchestrated by Greasy Sae who cooked breakfast for me for a month before I finally told her it was okay to leave. That I was fine cooking for myself. I haven't seen her since. Nor Peeta really.

Haymitch settles into a lazy lean on a seat that is crowded with trash and bottles but seems unbothered. For some reason this annoys me. "Again, with the boy problems, Sweet-"

"Katniss." I hiss. Haymitch's patronizing nickname is all too familiar to me, but I have never liked it. During the games and the war, I never had any control over it. But, now? Now that everything is over, now that he will never again be more than my next-door neighbor, I know that I don't want him calling me that ever again. It only reminds me of the same Haymitch I first met; my deceitful drunken sponsor. Maybe the same Haymitch he still is; the drunken, filthy Haymitch who seems so unchanged by all that's happened when the rest of us have had no choice. We wear the scars of the Games, outwardly and inwardly. Well, he will change at least this, I decide. Whether he likes it or not.

Haymitch stares at me, as if trying to determine whether or not I'm serious. Finally he says slowly, "Katniss…" and then leaves the silence for a while before saying calmly with a sullen shrug. "Fine. Kat. Niss." I ignore his butchering because I know it is his way of protesting my request, but I don't care, as long as he calls me only by my name. Instead of looking at Haymitch, I glance about the dark, dirty room and wonder absently if he has stepped foot outside in over a month.

"The boy was just in here an hour ago asking me about you." Haymitch huffs out in a low tone and my eyes fixate on him.

"He was?" I say, startled.

"Yes. Actually, he said something about hearing you…calling his name?" he says a knowing smile creasing his chapped lips. I shudder, and the color in my cheeks makes no sense. I have slept in a bed with Peeta, probably more than 100 nights, but for some reason knowing that he heard my involuntary cries brings me unease.

I wrap my arms tightly around my bare shoulders saying, quietly, as though not at all embarrassed "Oh…That…"

"Point is." Haymitch says cutting me off as he shifts upward a little awkwardly, "Just go see the boy, since it seems that you both want the same thing."

I am nodding but confused. I stare out the window into the darkness, before asking quietly "Which is?"

Haymitch shakes his head and leaning back closing his eyes he says in a tired voice,

"Each other."


	2. Chapter 2

**2. The Baker's Eyes**

I can hear myself breathing, further proof that I am rusty. I consciously try to steady them but they are still ragged and uneven. The mockingjays fly overhead making no sounds. Maybe they have had no one to mimic in so long that they've forgotten how. Maybe they are just trying to distract me. Trying to save their fellow bird. I hear the arrow flying before I even realize that I've let it go. The loud squawk of the pheasant is enough to know that I've hit him. The arrow has pierced him through the stomach.

I stand up and walk over to the dead bird lying on the dead brown leaves; its eyes open as if asking me "Why?" Sadly, I don't even know. I no longer have the need to hunt for food, and I don't really feel like plucking this bird clean, either, but I know I'll have to be the one to do it. For a moment I just stand here, looking into the eyes of the bird who continues to hold me with its cold dead stare.

Suddenly, the eyes belong to the Peeta from my nightmare of days ago. The Peeta who was hanging from the tree and I jump backwards, tripping over a branch. _Get it together Katniss_, I think and I look down at my hand trembling over the string of my slightly raised bow. I lower the weapon, tell myself, _Just a dream_, like Peeta would say. _Just a dream_.

Well, just a nightmare anyway.

Listening to the silence that surrounds me, I am reminded that there aren't very many people here in District 12, anymore. From what I've seen on the news, however, people are soon going to begin migrating to live here once again. They are going to rebuild "A bigger and better District 12!" as Effie Trinket nearly screeched last night.

Effie's bright orange dress perfectly matched her bright orange hair as she smiled that blinding smile from her seat as head reporter for the evening. In a way, I think it's what she was always meant to do. Now that there are no more games to explain and chaperone, she needs some use for that ever enthusiastic voice of hers. Anyone who doesn't know Effie probably just watches the small yet boisterous woman with the glittered face and Capitol accent and thinks her a silly fool. But I know better. Effie is changed, just like the rest of us. The changes are slight and you can only find them, by trying to in her eyes. The color remains the same of course, but they have lost most of their glimmer; most of their glow.

As I make my way into what is left of the town, I see already the carpenters building, the women hanging up laundry lines on the stakes that have been provided to them by the Capitol. Many stakes are just littered across the town. Some of them have been posted in the ground in fours and covered by large, thick tarps. Though the tarps vary in color, they all signify the same thing: residents of the former District 12, who have come back. Those who would rather sleep beneath a tarp on the thinly covered dirt as they wait for soldiers to rebuild, than to remain in the superficial Capitol, taken care of but treated like refugees. Even surrounded by rubble, the pride of the few District 12 residents' remains, and whenever I see the few townspeople I can't help but to feel in awe of their principles. Principles I feel I lost long ago, somewhere in-between my first hunger games and the war.

The 30 or so women who chatter in the middle of the square seem to have a commonality as they cut up food and shake out clothes, behaving as if their outdoor chores are nothing out of the ordinary; they are trying to make this District a home again, a home like it once was.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a thin, laughing woman and I immediately recognize her: she is one of those who was already here when I returned home. I remember her because the first day I entered the square, she ran up to me and handed me a single fire-blackened arrow. As if she had been waiting for me.

"My husband," she said her voice low, but steady "he fought with you." And then she hugged me tight, before rushing back over to her small children, who pointed at me and smiled.

The Mockingjay. I was that before, during the war and some people seem to think that I still am. But in reality it was only ever just a title, and I was only ever just a pawn; a propaganda puppet for District 13, and the rebels. I try not to think of the massive role I played in the war, but it is people like this woman, with the sandy brown hair, the ashen skin, and the deep grey eyes, who remind me. The people here now keep me at arm's length. They look at me as if I am someone foreign and different. As if I haven't lived in District 12 my entire life.

I walk over to the woman, who is bent over a large pot cutting up potatoes, and before I think about it, I am holding up the bird by its wiry legs and nodding toward the children.

"For you." I say softly and the woman smiles up at me thanking me as her children huddle around and immediately begin snatching feathers from the bird.

I am not fully aware of where I am going, but when I get there I know; the small twisted mounds of metal and dirt that used to be the bakery. This is where Peeta and his family spent much of their time; Peeta, his father, his mother, and his two older brothers all of whom are gone now. It has been marked by the Capitol.

After the war, Plutarch and several of the men from other districts who are landscapers and architects conducted a survey of the land and created somewhat of a thin reconstruction, to set the groundwork for the District's rebuild. There is a small fence lining the place where the hob once stood. There are markers for every shop and storehouse and for the school. And for the bakery, there are four small posts, one for each corner and two for the doorway. There is also a grey tarp covering it with s small hole at the top, that lets in sunlight. It looks very similar to the makeshift houses in the square.

I step through the wooden stakes that were once a door and survey the thick dusty ground, where there are spices scattered, and the floor is covered with a thick, grey powder. It looks like ash but there is something different about it, lighter.I lean down and touch it with my fingers. Not ash, flour. Mixed with ash I suppose. I stare ahead and same twisted lump of metal that signifies where the oven once stood. I wish they had taken it away but no. It still sits here as it did when I first came here from 13 what seems ages ago.

I always try not to think of Peeta's family, his 2 brothers, his ornery mother and his father, the baker. This of course means that I think of them often. But I think mostly of his father, who offered me a promise to care for my family and a small amount of cookies at the farewell for the first games. Maybe he thought that I would look out for Peeta. I never really understood that gift of cookies that I would eventually toss from the train windows thinking it surely some sort of trick. As I grew to know him better later on, I truly understood that there was probably nothing behind them. That Peeta got his genuine goodness in large part from his father: the quiet, unassuming baker with the kind eyes.

After the games, when Peeta and I were pretending to be engaged, per President Snow's orders, I always knew in my heart, that the baker played a small part in that as well. It wasn't that he openly admitted to knowing. No one _really_ knew the truth except Peeta, Haymitch and me. But there were times when I would be with Peeta, laughing and playing up the romance for the cameras, and from the corner of my eyes I would see the baker looking at me with those bright blue eyes, and the look of resolute sadness was unmistakable; it was a look that implied that, whatever the truth, he was certain that his son would always care for me more than I did him. A look given that was given with Peeta's same sad, blue eyes. I shudder as I think of it.

I move away from the stove and glance around at the dirt mixed with ash that surrounds the "room". Nothing but debris and burned pieces of what I imagine to be wood. Examining the floor closely I see that there are bits of melted colorful plastic mixed into the dirt. One piece clings to a single whole plastic wheel. Toy cars, I imagine. Toys that I am guessing belonged to Peeta and his brothers, at some point. I stop short at what I see next because it makes little sense; there beneath the pile of plastic is a small framed picture that seems intact but for the dust and dirt covering the frame.

I have been here a few times before, and I am sure that I have never seen it. I wonder briefly if Peeta came here and left it, as some sort of memorial, but still I reach into the muck and pull it out. I blow off some dust and see that it is a painting of a single loaf of bread. I recognize it. The raisins, the nuts, the shape…It's the same bread that Peeta tossed me all those years ago. The bread from our first interaction. I close my eyes and I can still see as a young boy, standing in the rain, his face bruised, never looking at me, but still giving me the bread. Giving me sustenance. Giving me hope.

It doesn't take a lot of thought before I quickly tuck the picture beneath my thick brown coat and turn to leave.

I stop and a small gasp emerges as my whole body freezes at the sight of him standing before me, watching me with a look of hollow interest.


	3. Chapter 3

**3. Please**

Neither of us speaks for what seems like an eternity, until finally he does.

"Catnip." He says with a slight smile, and for some reason, I feel not familiarity at the sound of the pet name, but instead a strange fear. I wonder about it absently but then remind myself that I haven't seen him in over a month. No calls. No letters. But here he is standing before me, tall and dark and somewhat handsome, if not a little wearied from…well everything.

"Gale?" I say, and it comes out like a question but I think he still understands my meaning. Just as he used to. The surprise that I feel at seeing him can only be matched by my expression.

Gale is dressed oddly, wearing a starched white shirt that tucks in just above his waist into white pants that seem too white, too clean. I'd know that unnatural, immaculate white anywhere; it is Capitol clothing. It's no wonder, really, because I know that Gale moved to District 2, the most closely related District to the Capitol. But it still makes me just a little angry seeing Gale, whose intense hatred for the Capitol first began the thin crack that is now the impassible chasm in our friendship, wearing them.

"I went to the…well the meadow first. I thought you might be there, certainly not at your house. Do you realize that I've hardly ever been to your house?" Gale says in a quick and rambling sentence, though he walks slowly around the room. It almost seems as if he is talking to himself, because he refuses to meet my gaze as my eyes follow his slow, awkward stride.

"And I mean, even when I did go, it was always as "your cousin" but never really just as myself." Yes. I remember. Though, they do seem to have been lifetimes ago; the roles that we all played for Snow and the Capitol. Peeta and I the "star-crossed lovers" who would have given their lives before killing one another or living without each other and Gale, my tall, handsome, yet harmless cousin, whose hair, eyes and skin are so like mine that not only did the Capitol buy it, but even the townspeople here did. I don't think of these roles often because they don't matter anymore. Snow is dead, and the games are over. Peeta and I aren't even friends, let alone lovers, and Gale is no more a cousin to me now than he ever was. But he's also not even my friend now, which does still sting a little. If only a little.

"I guess I figured it would feel different to go inside of your house now." Gale says, his voice continuing its low frantic pace. If I didn't know any better I would imagine that Gale is indeed talking to himself. Of course the words are addressed to me, but his gestures and his distant eyes, never looking to me, suggest that he is talking to someone else. Someone who is not even here.

"But it didn't feel different. When I knocked the door came open, and I admit I took a few steps in and glanced around before I realized that you weren't there, ignoring me; you just weren't there at all." Something about Gale's frantic, dejected tone is making me feel uneasy but I continue to listen as he speaks, unable to stop myself from caring what he will say next. "So then I thought, 'Maybe…she's with…him…' " He says, as he stares at the thin plastic wall, reaches his hand out and punches at it halfheartedly. "Just maybe…But, to be honest, I knew that I couldn't face you there, even if you were. So I didn't even go. Couldn't chance it. So, I just went to the woods but I didn't find you there either.

"Anyway, after the empty woods, something, I don't even know what, _something_ told me that you would be here. Picking through ashes, mourning his family…mourning him." By this time Gale has finally stopped circling and has inched towards me until he is standing almost directly in front of me, but still a little ways off. "And here you are." He says spreading his hands out to signify the bakery surrounding us.

His ramble seemingly over, Gale's eyes soften and his hand reaches over almost instinctively and he touches my cheek. Immediately I start, my face reflexively jerking out of his reach. At first, it occurs to me that maybe it is because this the first time that anyone has touched me since I came back to District 12. Well, no there was the woman from the Square and maybe even Greasy Sae. But this is surely the first time that anyone who I used to _really know_ has touched me. It strikes me that this should feel reassuring, but it only feels strange. As if Gale is crossing some boundary, but I can't explain why. We never really had any boundaries before. He's even kissed me, and I've kissed him. But this feels different. Outside of the hectic life-or-death life we've led until now, away from the pretense of our Capitol roles, after the war, after the bombing…after…Prim. After all those things, it now feels as If he's doing something that he has no right to do. Not anymore.

I step back slowly, partially not wanting to offend him but also wanting to look up into his eyes. He looks so much the same, the deep black hair, the mannish face and olive skin. But still he is so, so different. Maybe it is just because I haven't seen him in a while but still there is something behind his eyes that is so odd and unfamiliar that I suddenly want to know what it is.

"What are you doing?" I ask, the phrase escaping my lips as my eyes search his cautiously. It crosses my mind that I should have added "here" but then I realize that this question is actually better suited to our current situation. I have no idea what he is doing at all.

A look flashes over his face and then, Gale smiles, an odd smile that I've never seen. Almost as if he…pities me? I can't quite place it. As I am still trying to Gale answers my question.

"I'm here for the rebuild." He says and he's motioning to something on his shirt.

"Gale Hawthorne. C.O.G?" I read aloud, and look to him for an answer.

"President Paylor made me Captain of the Guards for District 2." He says with a small swell of pride and in spite of myself I smile.

"Good. Good for you." I say.

"I guess." He answers looking away again as he continues "We've been tasked to rebuild Districts 12 and 13 and my team and I were sent here to set things in motion. To find out how bad the damage really is, and consult with the town builders on how we should go about reconstructing what was once here and upgrading to what wasn't."

I feel a painful tightness in my stomach at his words and only find the ability to breathe again, as I notice that the tone of his statement signifies a temporary station. I recall the relief I felt knowing that Gale wouldn't be in District 12 anymore. I hope to feel it again soon.

"So…you're not staying?" I say, and I try not to sound as hopeful as I feel. Gale smiles again, the odd, pitying smile.

"No. I'm not staying, _Katniss_." And when Gale says my name, it sounds like a curse. But he is not angry, just resolved. As if, he expected this from me. As If I am just confirming what he already believes.

For a moment we just stand in the uncomfortable silence, and I begin to all at once feel so awkward and so hateful. This was my best friend once. Once. Now he is just Captain Gale Hawthorne. District 2's Captain of the Guards. Town Rebuilder….Bomb Builder…Possible Builder of the bomb that killed Prim. My innocent little sister, Prim, whose life vanished in smoke and darkness while Gale stands before me fully alive, almost glowing in his pristine, white Capitol clothing.

I shake my head gently as I realize that my eyes are filling with tears. Gale doesn't try to comfort me as he used to. He doesn't rush forward and hold me, and kiss the top of my head while telling me all about how okay it will be. He just turns away and looks out the ragged plastic window of the cold, grey, "bakery". His face turns away and soon his whole body is turned away and I am still crying shamefully with my face buried in my hands.

I feel so stupid. So small and silly to be crying out of nowhere but I can't help it. I don't know that I ever wanted Gale the way he wanted me to, but I did love him. I do know that. The only person that I know I loved more than Gale is Prim. And that is the person he may've taken away from me. He did the one thing that I know that I can never forgive and in this moment, standing in the bakery and invading my privacy with his artificial white suit and his pitying smile, I hate him for it. So much that I can barely stand it.

Soon, the tears stop, and I notice that the only breathing I hear now is my own. I look up, and Gale is gone. I glance about in surprise and begin to think that of the possibility that I imagined him, when I notice a thick, white envelope laying on the ashes before me with writing on it. It doesn't say my name but I immediately know that it is meant for me when I stoop down and read the words scrawled in Gale's lazy handwriting.

"Please"

That is all.

I lean down, pick it up, and make my way out of the rubble that was once the bakery, leaving the memories of the baker, the blue eyes and his family behind me.


	4. Chapter 4

**4. Minding**

I never noticed how much time I had to just do nothing. Possibly, because before, I was always filling that time with school or hunting or taking care of my mother and Prim. Before, I was basically the head of the household and it was my job to make sure that food was there for cooking. To make sure that Prim's schoolwork was done. To make sure that we survived. But, I know now, as a Victor of the Games, as the Mockingjay for the resistance, I will never want for anything ever again. It's such a sick truth that now, because of my participation in those first Hunger Games, I will indeed never go hungry again.

There is no longer any need to hunt, but sometimes I still do, because it really is all I have left. Aside from hunting, all I do is walk about the house, room after room, missing Prim, my mother. I often cry myself into deep restless sleeps, only to scream myself out of them hours later, shivering in the haunted quiets that surround me. Other times there is my game; counting person after person who has died by my hand and because of my actions. 1. Rue, 2. Finnick, 3. Cato 4. Prim.

I always count Prim.

Now, I sit in my living room looking around at the house. The structure of it is so solid, the outside a solid brick, the inside walls made with thick oak wood. It's much stronger than any of the other houses. Sometimes I imagine that that is why these Victor's Village houses survived when no others did. But then I recall that if the Capitol had had its way, things would've gone back to "normal"; the reaping and the Hunger Games and the Victor's Village. Maybe they would've sent all of the overflowing victors here to live. Or maybe they would have used these houses as a historic site, like they once did the old game arenas. I imagine the strangely dressed Capitol men and women walking through my home, picking through my things like vultures. "This is where Katniss Everdeen once lived." A tour guide would say with that sickeningly upbeat accent. Just thinking this way agitates me but still I can never help it.

Thoughts. They're all I have, as there is nothing else to occupy my time. I sometimes really miss the way my life was just before the games. Hunting, fishing, being responsible for the lives of two others. It made me feel stronger, more useful and more level-headed. Unselfish, which is one of those things you should not think of yourself though it is true. When you're taking care of two other human lives, you don't have time to worry about how you might be feeling. To fight with the demons swirling around in your head. I even sometimes think of the day before my first games, when Gale said that we could run away, him and me, and live off the woods. It was such a fantastical thought, and we both agreed that we had "too many kids". That we were bound to District 12, by our helpless, little siblings.

Gale. I think about him and his white suit and I remember the packet from yesterday that now sits above the fireplace on the mantle. I set it there as a compromise with myself, because I at first planned on tossing it into the flames. Would he ever even know that I didn't read it? Of course not. For all I know, he may never intend to speak to me again. I am sure that he chose his words carefully, said a lot about being sorry and regretting Prim, but even the fact that he may have written those words hurts me. He doesn't even deserve to write her name. Maybe, I will read it. But, for now, I can't even think about touching it again, so it will stay flickering with orange waves above the fireplace, with its single pathetic word: Please.

I try to have dinner with Haymitch at least once a week. Sometimes I think he enjoys it. Other times he acts like I am just a big bother to his very existence. After all this time, I like to think that Haymitch is just pretending that he doesn't care. Pretending that our lives are insignificant to him, but that we really do mean something. Peeta and I…But to be honest, I think I need the dinners more than Haymitch does. I spend so much time alone, that it's nice to be in the house with another living being. Even if it just a drunken, bad-tempered one.

As I ready my things, the croissants shipped in from the Capitol, the milk from the cow down the road, and the hens I had roasted in town earlier, I hear the low mewing of the cat. Buttercup. I glance down at him grimace as I used to at his muddy yellow coat and see that he is curling up around my feet. As if telling me that I am not to leave him this time. I usually don't, but even after all these months of finally accepting him, he seems to always want to remind me that all we have left is each other. No mom. No Prim.

"Okay," I say quietly and the smile surfaces even though I fight it, "You can come too." He seems to be purring now and I just ignore him. Dinner nights at Haymitch's may as well be meat nights for Buttercup. Usually, I let him feed himself. Scrounge up whatever he can outside of lizards and mice, but on Haymitch dinner nights he always has a nice big serving of whatever meat we have. Mutton last week. Veal the week before. If I didn't know better, I would say that he actually _knows_ the days of the week and looks forward to them. But it's probably just that he sees me preparing the basket.

The basket in one arm and Buttercup in the other, I walk down the steps and make my way across to Haymitch's. I glance up at the other house, identical to mine except that the Primrose bushes are not on the side of it and I see that the lights are on. But then, they always are in Peeta's house.

For just a minute instead of walking briskly by, I stop and stare up at the house. I've only been inside it a handful of times. Peeta mostly always came to my house, and about 6 months after the games, we weren't even speaking to one another outside of the happy couple we played for the Capitol. Or I guess it was that he wasn't speaking to me. When we did start speaking again, it was on the Victory Tour not in our homes. So, I wasn't exactly going to his house to converse with him or anything.

Looking at his house now, I can't help but think about how lonely Peeta must be. The brown bricks are dusty and the door is a deep black that makes it seem unwelcoming. I think about the fact that he never comes to the dinners though I've told Haymitch to invite him. Peeta is more alone than even I am. Sure, my mother is not here, but she's still alive. And Gale. He came to see me, even if I didn't want to see him. Peeta has no one. Well, he does have Haymitch, but he's not exactly someone you have, just someone who happens to be here. A creeping shame slides up my neck and grips my throat.

I am just willing myself to walk over, to stride up those grey steps and invite him over myself, just like the strong, confident young lady Effie always told me to be, when I see her.

A tall red-haired girl is making her way up Peeta's walk. She holds a brown bag in her hands and all I can see of it is that there are candles poking out of the top. Her flaming, curly hair falls down her back just covering her rear and her steps are long and deliberate. She is smiling very brightly and she seems to be humming to herself. Before I know it, she is up those steps, at that door, ringing the bell. And I am frozen, watching the red head with the brown bag waiting for an answer. I wonder to myself who she is waiting for. I know logically, that it is Peeta; that it could _only be_ Peeta, but somehow this makes no sense to me. She waits patiently and I wait with her, and she seems to not notice the brunette with the moaning yellow cat and the messy basket of food gawking at her.

Staring up at the house with a sense of dread, I see Peeta open the door. He looks good. Better than he did the last time I saw him anyway. His scarring is minimal and from where I stand, you can barely see the patchwork that was once his newly sewn in skin. His blonde hair seems longer, falling just above his ears, and he is smiling. Now he looks almost like Peeta. Not the destructive Peeta who wanted to kill me. Or the fire mutt whose scarred skin matched mine. He looks like Peeta Mellark, the baker's son. The boy with the bread.

The girl is now hugging him, her arms wrapped around his neck in such a way that he stumbles a little to hold her weight. But he hugs her back, and after exciting chattering, and without either of them noticing me, the door is suddenly closed. And I am standing here, with Buttercup slipping and the food getting colder and my mouth on the ground. And I understand now what Gale meant when he said once that he realized he liked me because he was bothered by Darius, a man who teasingly talked about trading a rabbit for a kiss. "I realized…I minded," Gale had said.

I understand this because standing here, seething, wishing I'd had my arrows just now to take care of both of them with one shot, I know that I don't like that this strange redhead just walked into Peeta's house with her curly hair, and her bouncy steps, and her bag of food. I realize that I mind.

I mind a whole hell of a lot.


	5. Chapter 5

**5. An Effie Evening**

The sound of Haymitch's TV makes up for his lack of speaking. He is eating the hen ferociously. He always does this in a manner that makes me think that the only night that he eats is the night that I bring the food. Buttercup is quietly enjoying his hen. He has a whole hen because I packed 4 and I can barely eat the one on my plate. That cat is going to get seriously fat. As if he needed any help with being uglier.

I watch the television and pick at my food while thinking about the red-headed girl hugging Peeta. She seemed pretty enough, from what I could see, but I didn't know that was his type. In fact, I didn't even know Peeta had a type. Except of course, for me. _I was his type once_, I think miserably as I hear Effie's voice suddenly flitting into the room. I look up at her and see a woman with sea green hair a matching sea green top and slightly dimmed eyes.

Effie Trinket. Former Hunger Games escort. Fashion icon. News reporter. Haymitch seems to perk up when Effie comes on screen and says genially "Look, at the old girl go. You'd think she'd come into this world with a microphone in that painted hand of hers." but I try to ignore him, paying close attention to Effie as a picture of District 12 flashes across the screen in the upper right hand corner.

"Today the rebuilding of Districts 12 and 13 began. Councilman Heavensbee sent in the National Guard to survey the damage and it was determined that at least 2,000 carpenters, agriculturists, contractors, and construction workers are needed. There had been talk of creating a grander and more decorative Districts 12 and 13," Effie speaks in her same chirpy voice, but it is ever so slightly toned down. I can hear the emphasis she puts on each important word, and I can tell that she is good at this. Probably great. She leans towards the camera as she says the next word in an affected tone, as if she and whoever is watching are in on some secret, even though there are probably millions watching, it still feels like she is speaking directly to me.

"But…" Effie says with a small smile, "after tallying the votes of the former residents, _itching_ to return to their former homes, it seems that the council has agreed to simply till the land, clear the wreckage and build houses, allowing the residents shape their own Districts!"

The camera switches views and with the backdrop of a Capitol building, a woman with brown hair and eyes and another woman with grey strands sweeping in and out of deep black hair are there talking excitedly. Their olive skin and familiar tones let me know where they are from: The Seam. These are people from my old District 12, people I'd recognize anywhere.

"We don't need any fancy improvements!" The brown haired woman screeches in a low birdlike trill, to the off screen person holding up the mike. "Just build back our houses and give us our farmland and we'll be fine!" She screams, as if there is some obvious reason to be yelling.

The other woman, the older one, nodding her head says quietly, "We lived off the land for 30 years my husband and I. Lost both our sons and our daughter to the games. Then I lost him to the war." As she speaks her words of tragic loss I feel a slight tug inside of me, and I search her eyes for the look that mirrors my own reflection. The look of lost and longing, but I find none. The woman seems content and calm and I find myself wishing I knew what this feels like. What it feels like to not be haunted by nightmares, and thoughts of the dead that roll around in your head like familiar beloved things.

"But I can go on living another 30 years if I just have a roof, a goat, and my sewing for selling." The woman says and seems to be motioning to her coat implying that she made it. It's nice and it makes me think of Cinna, my stylist from the games.

Cinna is one of those who died because of me, who I try not to think about, but always do. Cinna, Madge, Prim.

_Prim…_

I tune back in and the screen is flickering again showing several different people with different opinions. Some of them, even ones that lived here before, are violently against remaking the same district.

"It was nothing but famine and coal!" a grey-eyed man screams. Others, like the two women seem extremely positive about it remaining the same. The people and opinions blur together. No one is neutral but the majority, those for remaking District 12 in the same way; definitely win out in this case.

I am just turning back to my hen when I catch the name flashing across the bottom of the screen. Captain Gale Hawthorne. I look up at the picture and watch as he appears. His grey eyes seem luminescent under the lighting and it makes me wonder if this was shot before today, until I look at his background and see that it is the woods. My woods, and then I know that this is being filmed today, maybe even right now, although the lighting is such that it seems like daylight. But, I know that the Capitol can do this, make the night look like day, because of what they did with the games. They can do about anything.

Gale is staring intently into the screen and I take in his features. Tightened jaw, strong chin, large but slender nose. Fiercely determined look in his eyes. It occurs to me, that Gale looks very different now. Instead of just a manlike teenager, he actually does like a man. Like a full-grown adult. I wonder why I didn't notice it before. It is only as he opens his mouth and begins speaking that I remember that he is on TV being interviewed.

"District 12 was always a beautiful place that was just run down by the…conditions. I think that it's perfectly fine that people want it the way that it was. But I also think that people should learn to accept change when it's for the best. So I vote that we do rebuild it, leaving the land for people to cultivate but the houses should be more modern, more convenient. Everyone should have running water and a fridge, not to mention access to all of the opportunities that those in the Capitol have. In addition to the already restored train-tracks, I'd like to build a hoverport and a college. Ultimately, I want this to be the same District 12 but even better." Gale is speaking intensely gesturing with his hands, his eyes on fire. He is so passionate about this that it startles me. Passion, I realize. That is what I am missing. I am not passionate about anything anymore. I just feel empty now.

"So what is your hope?" The reporter is saying off the screen and Gale is staring intently again clearly thinking of what his answer will be. "What do you hope to accomplish for Districts 12 and 13?"

"My hope," says Gale, "Is that the people of the Districts will never forget the past, but will also wholeheartedly embrace the future."

A quick smile from Gale and Effie is filling the screen again smiling widely and saying coyly "Spoken like a _true_ Captain! There we have it everyone, Districts 12 and 13 being rebuilt under the very watchful eyes of Captain Gale Hawthorne. As a former District 12 and District 13 resident I think we can all agree that he would know best." It's so strange to see Effie talking in her personable way to the camera, but I can tell that this is what makes her so good at it. That ability to make people believe, no matter what the story, she really cares. A small part of me thinks that she does. She leans in now armed with her signature blinding smile and saying her now infamous line "So that's all I have for tonight, everyone. Good night, and always remember: When you're watching Evenings with Effie, the odds of good news are always in your favor!"

The screen goes dark and I see Haymitch shaking his head darkly as the control drops from his hand to the floor. "Some things will never change." he says, shoving two of the chicken bones into his mouth and savagely sucking the remaining meat from them.

"Effie's changed." I say, feeling defensive of her suddenly, though I have no idea why. It's not as if I owe her any favors.

"I wasn't talking about Effie." Haymitch says and he pulls a flask from seemingly nowhere and guzzles it down greedily. "I was talking about the rebuilding of the Districts. They're trying to modernize us. They're trying to turn us into the Capitol."

"No they aren't. Gale wouldn't do that." I say aloud, but inwardly I know that I have little to no idea what Gale would do anymore. Not Gale, my best friend and hunting partner. _Captain_ Gale Hawthorne, with the face of a man and the passion of some storybook hero.

"It's not about _Gale_." Haymitch muses and the way he says Gale makes it clear that he's mocking me. "It's about Plutarch, the fat bastard, and all the other Capitol cronies. Take a look at the news sometime, Sweetheart, and see what's happened in all the other Districts. Pretty soon they'll make it so that you can't tell one District from the next. They're all almost uniform now. Except for ours and District 13." He swigs more of the alcohol and wipes his mouth with his brown sleeve. "And that's just the way I like it!" He stumbles out of his chair and heads down the hall towards what I can only hope is his bathroom. The sound of him retching turns my stomach and I give up picking at my food to instead toss it down to Buttercup who eagerly begins to gobble it up.

_Making the Districts uniform?_ I think and wonder why they would want to do that. I never even thought about what District 12 would look like after the rebuild. I mean, I knew it wouldn't be the same, but who cares what it looks like so long as it's rebuilt? I don't, and I feel that familiar pang of jealousy when I think of Gale and his passion for the future and Haymitch's passion for the familiarity of the past. Well, I don't have the luxury of feeling passion. Not now. Maybe not ever. Between my waking nightmares, and my haunted thoughts, it's all I can do to stay sane. Passion is for regular people. Passion is not for grounded mockingjays.

Haymitch reenters looking uncharacteristically refreshed and wearing a new shirt. Looking at him in his clean white shirt with his sad eyes as grey as I can ever remember, a thought that I'd never considered enters my mind. I suppose, if he tried, Haymitch might be somewhat attractive; or at least more agreeable to look at. Seeing him as a 15 year old boy in the games, made me realize that potential, but I never really had a chance to think about it before. Clearly, he hasn't either. Haymitch Abernathy may have a lot of things, but self-awareness is not one of them. And this mess in his house is further proof.

Glancing around the room with the beer bottles, papers, food wrappers, and dirt, I wonder what has made him so averse to cleaning and I speak my thoughts aloud "How can you live like this?"

"Who has time for cleaning when there's so much to be done?" Haymitch says lightly, walking across the room to the tall glass cupboard near the fireplace.

"What do _you_ do? Every time I see you, you're drunk. Always. I've never seen you do anything aside from the few times you go into town to buy more booze." I say, my tone becoming more high-pitched in disbelief with each word.

"Exactly! And that's because there is _so_ much to be done." Haymitch pulls a bottle from the cupboard and says in a serious tone but with a clearly comedic fashion "For instance: Tequila," pulling out another bottle, "Vodka," and another "Rum," one more "and of course the old standby, white liquor!" before kissing each of the four bottles and bumping the cupboard shut with his hip. "Being a hateful drunk _is_ a full-time job after all." He muses and walks back to the table.

I really wish he wouldn't act this way. Because I have the sinking feeling that he'll probably be dead within 10 years, which is really a shame when you think about the fact that he can't be much older than 40 now. And just sitting around drinking in this filth. It's enough to make me wish that he did have a full-time job. But even still he'd need a maid.

All at once it hits me. Full-time job. Cleaning. The woman from the square with the arrow.

"If I got you another maid would you pay her and let her stay?" I ask, already knowing that I will get her and he will pay and let her stay, whether he wants to or not.

"Of course, I did before didn't I?" says Haymitch.

"Well, good, I'll send her here tomorrow evening, she'll get this house clean in no time and more than earn her wage." Haymitch doesn't respond but I can tell that he's satisfied thinking of having someone else here to clean up after him.

"Sounds good to me." Haymitch murmurs his lips already pushed against another one of his bottles.

I pick up Buttercup, the basket and walk towards the door. Abruptly, I get the urge to aggravate Haymitch, make him pay for his drunken haze. For ruining our dinner with his vulgar antics. So I walk to the door and even open it, before I lean forward and say quickly "By the way:…she has two little kids!" and before he has time to do anything but spit the liquor across the floor in a rage, I slam the door shut and race down the steps.

It's been such a long time since I've laughed that I immediately replay Haymitch's spit-take and laugh to myself even more as I walk in lazy steps towards my house. Knowing Haymitch, he doesn't even have the coordination necessary to run out and catch me, demanding an explanation. But as I absently glance over at Peeta's house, I remember the red haired girl with the bag and the smile drops from my face.

Peeta's house, where the lights are always on and the house is always silent, is now dark. Dark but not quiet, and it's almost as if Peeta and the girl are trying to be heard, their laughter mixed in with a soft tepid music, echoing out into the night.

My first instinct is to rush over and peer into his windows. See where they are. Why they're laughing. _What is so funny?!_ But I know that this is irrational and completely out-of-place. Why should I care about Peeta and the red haired girl? It's not as if we've spoken at all. It's not as if we're friends anymore. Not in reality. Only in the pocket of my mind that is still reserved for secret thoughts of Peeta and the way he was back then.

The true Peeta Mellark; Funny, kind, gentle, selfless…amazing. But that was all before the destruction at the Quarter Quell. Before the torturing and the hijacking and the bombing. Although I am somewhat aware that he's better now, I still have no idea who he is anymore. Is he himself again? Or is he changed like me? Or is he somewhere in between? The answer is nowhere within my reach. Just like him. And I painfully admit that now, in all honesty, Peeta Mellark in a darkened house, with a redheaded girl who he finds to be the funniest person alive, and listens to music with, is absolutely none of my business. I reluctantly accept this and I walk into my house allowing Buttercup to slip onto the ground and slam the door shut. As if it makes any difference.

I actually strip down to my underclothes, too tired to put on night clothes and instead of doing anything remotely routine, like bathing or cleaning teeth, I climb beneath the warm covers and pull them tightly up to my chin. I lay here gradually trying to rock myself to sleep, when at all once the tears hit. They come down and down and down and there is nothing I can do to stop them. I tell myself that they are for the war victims. They are for Cinna, Madge, Finnick, Boggs, and the others. And Prim. Of course, they are for Prim.

But, inside I think I know, with every tear that drops and as soon as they fall, that they are for him. The boy who is only 10 yards away; in the darkened house with a redheaded girl.


	6. Chapter 6

**6. Camellia**

The next day I wake up, along with the sunrise. I feel unusually rested. I would think that last night would've been one of a waking nightmare but it was not. I can't really recall…yes. I can. It was Primrose. I lay in a hammock and Primrose held me and rocked with me back and forth. She was her same small self, but somehow she was the one holding and steadying me. I was smiling and she was singing something. Something that I can't recall and I curse myself, because I can never seem to fully recall the good dreams but the bad ones always stay with me all day. They follow me around like a stray dog.

Before I can think much more about the dream, I remember that I have a purpose today, and it feels good. I look in the closet and pull out the dark green shirt with brown buttons down the front and a pair of boots. I tuck my black pants into the boots, so that nothing can crawl up my legs. I look at myself in the mirror and decide to tuck my hair into the back of my shirt. Maybe, I can actually be inconspicuous. My arrows hang down low from the hook over my bedroom door and I instinctively pick them up slinging the sheath across my back. Just in case.

The town seems to be developing quickly. I do see that Gale and his men have commissioned the rebuilding of some of the staked off places. Where just yesterday there were tarps, there are instead piles of wood and bricks sectioned off beside each of the markers. I recognize the place that was once the library, the courthouse and the Mayor's house.

Also, in addition to the tent-like houses all over, there are even some people who have assembled to make some kind of over-night Market. It's old-fashioned, mostly carts lining the outskirts of the square, but there are some who also have large clay ovens, and cows and goats.

With the new laws, there is also some sort of air care service, where the Capitol sends in food for everyone once a week. There are plain things like bread, precooked meat, and cans of veggie soup. But there are also delicacies like boxes of fudge and fine wines. The mixture is enough so that now, no one feels unindicted into the world of "fine dining" so common in the Capitol. But still, the people seem so malnourished and underfed. Glancing around at the sunken faces and wispy frames, I wonder about how nutritious the food is. Wonder if possibly instead of sending any of those air care delicacy packages, they should only send the bread and the cooked meat. Instead of wasting care on those boxes of fudge and the fine wines they should probably be focusing only on providing sustenance to people.

My thoughts are interrupted by the force of a small child hitting my leg. I look down and it is the son of the widow whose arms are wrapped around my leg in a smiling recognition. His eyes are a shade of green that I've never seen and he seems so unexplainably excited. As if he thinks I've brought him something.

"Where is your mother?" I ask, eager for him to release my leg. Children make me nervous. Since Prim, and the bombing of all of those kids in front of Snow's house, I just can't stomach them. Small, delicate creatures, so easily killed. The boy's smooth porcelain white face is splotched with red patches and he points his chubby finger across the yard. She is there with her back turned dipping her hands in and out of the basin. In and out, scrubbing away dirt and ash. I walk over to the woman, her son steadily keeping in time with my long strides by skipping in time with me.

"Excuse me," I say and the woman starts, turning towards me with a slight tremor in her voice. Clearly, she is easily surprised.

"Oh! Hello." She says and her face brightens her smile etching out over her face. The yellow teeth are barely noticeable, because the genuineness of the smile is something that I am not used to seeing.

"Um, I'm Katniss Everdeen…" I say, and she gives me an incredulous and insulted look, so I add quickly "As you know." She smiles again nodding, "I was wondering if you have somewhere to stay or a job or…anything." I squeak out feeling silly as I glance towards the small blue tent house we are standing in front of. I imagine the thin blanket inside for the flooring, the hardness of the ground and the coldness of the night. The clothes she's washing have the same hue as the dirty water even when clean. Clearly, she has nothing.

She replies by telling me that anything I need she'd love to be of service for. So I tell her about the Victor's Village, and Haymitch and the extra bedrooms for her and each of her children. Along with the generous wage Haymitch will provide. _More generous than even he knows_, I think. When I finish my statement she stares at me unblinkingly for a while and then without another word, she leaps onto me and hugs me almost pulling me down with her.

"Thank you! Thank you! Bless you! Thank you!" she is yelling and asks when she can come. I tell her whenever it's convenient and advise her that if she needs help with her things I will be happy to provide it. Within the next 15 minutes she has her children, each of their 2 outfits along with her one, and a few trinkets wrapped neatly in the tarp from the stakes. We walk away leaving the four pieces of lumber staked to the ground, the only evidence that anyone ever lived on the large earth patch.

As we make our way through the square; the short woman her two children and me, one child, the same boy, still hanging onto my leg, I can't help but to notice the other people again. They are watching us and I am sure some of them envious. All of them hungry, all of them tired. I wish there was more I could do to help, but it's not as if Peeta and I need maids. Not as if, we want strangers in the spare bedrooms to hear our screams or our nighttime sobs. Well, I don't anyway.

It is Haymitch's market day, so he is gone when we get to his house. He is most likely out gathering more drinks for his evening. I let the woman into Haymitch's and of course she finds her work cut out for her. I assure her that though this, Haymitch's living space, is destructed, I know for a fact that the 3 spare rooms upstairs have not been touched. That she and her children will have enough clean space to make it into their home. She thanks me. Tells me her name is Camellia, and that she can't wait for me to see the house again after she's cleaned it. Says that I will be amazed at how clean it will be, and invites me for dinner as soon as possible.

I smile lightly to myself as I stride down the steps. I feel good for having done something nice for a change. For someone else. Like a shot, I remember the pheasant that I gave Camellia just a few days ago and realize something else that I can do for someone. Maybe, for everyone. I take off running towards the town.


	7. Chapter 7

**7. Beasts of the Seam's Wild**

I can't really understand why anyone would choose to cart around a giant wheelbarrow, but as I ease it into the middle of the woods, the center of my comfort zone, I am sure that borrowing it from one of the farmers in town was the right move. The black bucket of the barrow is wide and deep. And the large wheel on the front, clearly engineered for the rough terrain of the forest, makesit pretty easy to move, although it will be slow going of course. I make sure that it is secured with a rock and then glance around my forest with a deep sigh.

It's around 8 and the sun is just beginning its slow rise to the center of the sky. The wide earthy ground is now covered only sparingly by trees. It's a wonder that anything survived the attacks by the Capitol, but I guess they weren't exactly targeting animals. I try not to think about why the forest is still here, only that it is. It's enough for me that I still have this. This one thing that really matters to me. These trees to climb and rocks to lean against and catch my breath. The small springs of water that seemingly pop up from nowhere beneath brown leaves and pine needles. And prey. The water always attracts animals and that's one of the easiest ways to find and kill unsuspecting game.

For the moment, I have no interest in traps and instead I find a nice sturdy oak tree. In no time I am sitting on a branch that is up high enough so that I don't attract too much attention, yet low enough that I can climb down swiftly when I need to. I pull out my arrow, placing it against my bow and wait. The forested silence gives me enough noise so that I am not trapped in my thoughts. The focus necessary for the shooting gives me enough quiet so that I am only concerned with breathing and waiting. My breathing. The waiting. Breathe. Wait.

Breathe.

Wait.

It's been about thirty minutes when I notice something stepping out into the clearing, and immediately shoot the arrow directly into its eye. It's a rabbit. Brown, medium size, dead. I stare down at the rabbit for a while considering going to get it, when I note that it actually may be the perfect attraction for something else.

I lean back against the tree and wait some more. Breathe and wait. Wait and breathe. The sound of birds chirping high pitched warbles that break the silence let me know that something is coming. It's probably been about an hour since the first kill, but it feels like no time has passed. I sit up slowly, position my arrow again and wait, my eyes searching the wood, my fingers tense against the back of my bowstring. Finally a large deer makes its way into the clearing. I don't know why, but instead of firing I just stare down at him, and watch.

He is a large brown buck whose coat glistens almost golden in the sunlight. The shiny brown coat, perfectly matched branching antlers, dry black nose and the large black eyes, signify that this isn't just a deer. This is a beautiful, regal stag and I begin to feel a low shame coursing through me. My fingers freeze over the nook of my arrow. _Maybe I shouldn't kill it._

My sentiments catch up to me as I see him step on and then slowly back away from the rabbit, looking alarmed, his front legs lifting slightly as he prepares to retreat. I panic and my arrow slips from its place on the bow. The deer looks up at me in shock and turns to begin its sprint. I quickly drop the arrow from my hand, at the same time pulling another from my sheath and placing it on the bow just long enough to pull back and let it fly. The loud moan escapes the deer's throat at the same time the frustrated grunt escapes mine. He falls to the ground. And the sound of his low wail, I curse myself that I left the knife that I usually bring along to put larger prey out of its misery.

I drop down the branches to collect my fallen arrow and make my way over to him wondering where the poorly aimed arrow hit him. I note that there was no need for the knife after all as the deer is dead. I myself am shocked when I see it where the arrow pierced him; straight through the heart.

The two animals barely fill the bottom of the wide barrow, though the deer, of course, takes up a large amount of space. I glance up at the sun. It's already around 1. _I don't have time for this_, I think and leaving the dead animals, I walk deeper into the trees, loading my arrow and scanning around me. I am moving quickly now, impatient fromthe waiting in the tree. Trying to make up for almost letting that deer get away. At the sight of a squirrel I begin and soon I am shooting animal after animal, with no particular rhythm; pheasants, quails, squirrels, a small badger. Determined to fill the barrow. Each time my arms are full I make my way back to the barrow waiting in the center of the forest. Hours pass and more and more rabbits and birds meet my arrows. At last, I am almost satisfied with the large pile of dead meat almost spilling over the barrow. When I notice that I don't have a single fox.

Fox meat is some the choicest, leanest, tastiest meat. Although it must be soaked overnight just to be tender enough to eat, it would be a shame if I didn't have even one. I look up into the sky and see that the sun is still fairly overhead. It's probably around 4 now. _I have time_. Once again, I make my way into the woods this time walking diagonally from my barrow, careful not to make any sound with each step.

Gale taught me how to spot fox dens. They are always messy, sometimes beneath what may look like just piles of leaves and debris, always nearby water, and usually behind small mounds of gathered earth. Always just where they hope you won't notice them. But we noticed, Gale and I. We learned to "think like the animals" as Gale would say. So it takes only 30 minutes before I find one. I just lean against the rock across from the entrance and wait. Soon the fox emerges timidly, sniffing. Before she can do much more than that, my arrow is piercing her eye. I immediately grab her by the tail and run off. I don't wait to see if any cubs will emerge. I don't want to know.

I am about 50 feet from my barrow when I notice that there is something wrong; the unfamiliar scent, the birds screeching through the silence. The forest is stilled. This means that there is danger, that something is happening, but I can't imagine what. I feel silly with the fox wrapped behind my neck, but I place an arrow against my bow and move forward. It's not as if there is anything else to do. As I make my way towards the clearing with the _barrow slowly, stepping_ very quick but silent, I see the problem: standing there, chewing on my rabbit, the very first one that I shot today, is a large, black bear.

My heart begins pounding in my ears. A bear! I haven't seen one in years. I know that they're out here but in general, I pay no mind to them. I guess after 2 Hunger Games and a war, bears have been the very last thing on my mind. Literally.

I quickly step behind a large tree hoping that he hasn't seen me. I wait, my breathing steady and slow. No odd sounds. No movement. He didn't see me. I crouch down and glance around the tree at him. He has made a mess of my barrow. No, oddly he hasn't eaten much more than a few birds maybe, but he seems to have tossed out the majority of my meat to find the rabbits. Now the kills lay scattered around the barrow and the bear sits on his haunches chewing hungrily on one while the others await similar fates beneath his large belly. A bear with a preference for rabbit. If this situation wasn't so infuriating it might be a little funny.

I find myself growing angry at the bear. The nerve of the giant, hulking creature, to steal my meat and then sit down calmly eating the rabbit. _My_ rabbit! My first kill of the day. I sit down and quietly remove the sheath, then begin pulling out the arrows one by one. There are the wooden ones, a few silvers and then the blackened one that Camellia gave me. The one that belonged to her husband. I don't want to use that one. Not now. Not for this bear. I choose one of the silver ones. It's just sharp enough that it can pierce him right through his eyes. I can't chance aiming anywhere else, with all that fur and fat. I load the arrow; think about the bear and all the rabbits he's eaten. _He'll more than pay them back_, I think menacingly and whip around the tree planning to aim for his eyes…Only, he's no longer in the clearing.

I glance around and see no sign of him. Now I panic and push quickly away from the tree spinning back to the clearing and landing on my bottom and just miss the quick swipe of the bear's paw that surely would've torn me in half.

I roll forward on the ground and jump to my feet running towards the barrow, hearing the creature roaring behind me. Knocking the barrow to its side, I leap behind it and peer ahead. The bear is lumbering toward me on all fours. I lift up on my knees and let the arrow fly. But the bear is moving too fast and I am too nervous so the arrow only pierces his shoulder. He barely breaks his stride and is almost on me. I put one hand against the edge and quickly flip the barrow over so that I am beneath it, and possibly in confusion the animal barrels right into it, tumbling over me and the barrow until I am thrown onto the ground and we are both strewn in a mixed heap of fur and dead animals.

_If I can just reach my sheath_, I think, before the bear, angrily grunting to my left, struggles himself upright. My hands grip the arrow just as he is leaping toward me. I pull myself smaller, so that I am out of the reach of his front claws and without thinking, I point the arrow straight up, plunging it so deep into his fur that my hands are almost inside of him. I shiver slightly as his body rubbles against me with his loud, pained cry. His body lying atop me, I quiver as blood from his heart pours down over my hands. With a low growl, the bear quiets his struggle, lets out his death moan and I feel the full weight of his body enshrouding me in heavy, total darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

**8. Silver Slip**

By the time I pull my body from beneath the beast and trudge into town with my wheelbarrow filled with meat it is nearly 7. The first person I see is a tall slender man who, along with a short, stout friend of his, rushes over to me, seeing the blood and probably thinking it mine. I tell them instead about the bear and where to find it, and soon the two of them and five others are headed into the forest to pick up the bear and lug it into town to join the rest of the meat.

As I make my way through the square of people with my meat barrow, I am unsure who to speak to. It doesn't seem as if anyone is particularly in charge but surely all are hungry, their eyes practically watering at the sight of the stacked animals. I walk to the center of the square and topple over the barrow. The animals slide down and around one another until there is a pyramid of meat in front of me. I carefully root through them sorting the birds from the rabbits from the deer, until there are separate piles of separate sized animals all around me. I pick up the fox and stuff it into my bag. That's the only piece I really wanted.

As I finish sorting, dusk is setting in and I see the tall man and his helpers lumbering towards me with the bear. It is larger than I realized and I wonder why I was so stupid to try and fight it. _Why couldn't I just leave it with the barrow and walk back home?_

The tall man who is clearly the lead is staring at me in astonishment as they drop the bear near my meat pile.

"All by yourself? This bear must be 300 lbs!" he says. "How on earth did you do it?!"

I am slow to understand that he is asking me how I killed it. Mostly because I never understand when people ask these kinds of things. Don't they know that when the situation is life or death, you don't think about size or surrender? You think about survival. It was me or the bear. That's all. There is no amazement to be had because I am not some super-trained warrior who gallantly bested a giant bear. I am a survivor. Plain and simple.

But I look at the wide-eyed men and say none of this. Because, what I've come to realize is that no; most people don't know what I do because most people probably haven't exactly been through all that I have. So, instead, of being honest, and delivering some lecture about killing or being killed, I do what I often do when I am faced with a situation that causes me to have to explain the unexplainable: I lie.

I think back to my days playing the coy fiancé to Peeta's enthusiastic lover and respond with a school-girl styled smile and a toss of my head "Luck."

For a few moments the men just blink at me and then they commence to a loud, hearty laughter patting one another's backs and then patting mine as well. Just like that, I know that I have been accepted**. **Though I am not sure _what_ I have been accepted as.

I tell the two men why I killed all these animals. I tell them about my idea for rationing and ask who's in charge. They say it together "Captain Gale." Ugh. I have no stomach for him at the moment, so instead of trying to follow their explanation of where Gale is, I ask the lead guy to call his wife. The man calls his wife over and soon women are pouring from the tents making their way towards us gathering the meat.

As soon as all the animals have been rationed, someone brings a cleaver and they skillfully hack up the bear. Those who already have meat only get for their neighbors, and those who don't eagerly wait their turn. The people are civilized, calm, understanding. When it becomes clear that the meat is gone they all thank me, cheering and saluting before quietly heading back to their homes. As the streetlights begin their hazy yellow glow, I stand near the fountain, exhaustion finally finding its way past the adrenaline filled hours of my day.

I pause, lean my head back and stare up at the sky. _Breathe, Katniss, breathe_. There is nothing as soothing as the night sky, a dull, starless grey and I feel good. Like I finally have a real reason to feel so tired. Like sleep might be a little easier tonight. When I finally straighten up, readying myself to head for home, glancing around the square, I see them.

Peeta and the redheaded girl, arms locked through one another's elbows staring at me. They are at least 10 yards away and again there is the wicked thought about the arrows, which I now have, being able to take them both out with one blow. But there is something else:

I was the rebels' Mockingjay. Standing here covered in the blood of a 300 lb bear that I killed. People milling around who will be blessing my name with their dinner. Who timidly answered "Luck." and was initiated into the group of tent-dwellers with hearty pats to her back. Who nearly fed the whole town in a single day. Yet when it comes to this...Peeta? I am nothing but a girl. A sad, little girl who can't help but remember being held by those arms, the same arms that are now locked in with someone else's and the feeling disgusts me.

I turn away from them, leaving the barrow and begin to walk quickly. I can't be sure, but I think I hear someone calling my name. By the time the sound hits my ears, however, I am already sprinting towards my home.

The next few days go by in much the same fashion, I hunt, bring food to the square, the people collect it, I go home. Over and over. There is however, no more sign of Peeta or the red head. I don't look up at his house when I hear the music. I don't make eye contact when I feel him outside as I walk out the house making my way towards the woods. The evenings are still hard, as I am either crying until sleep or having those awful nightmares, but as the days pass and I occupy myself with hunting, setting traps, getting back into the groove of helping others survive, I notice that I seem to sleep much easier. Longer and more restfully.

After about a week straight of hunting, I begin to spend my days in the square teaching the women there how to best preserve the meat so that they can get the most out of it. Some of them are cooks and they teach me about seasoning everything in such a way that it makes the same kind of meat have hundreds of flavor possibilities. A few times, they persuade me to stay for dinner and when I eat their food, it reminds me of the food in the Capitol; the savory flavors and the thick hearty broths; the bread that is baked largely in clay ovens, with butter atop melting into each bite.

I wonder at the women, men and children who are always in high spirits and laugh and converse with one another every night. I wonder about the happy looks in their eyes that seem to express a feeling of richness was never here before. Even sitting on the blanketed floor of a large tent that has been deemed the meeting hall for the town, with about 20 other men, women and children all telling tales of their plans for when the government comes through with the houses, feels like a new kind of wealth.

The children talk about wanting to grow up and become councilmen and doctors. The little girl who says she wants to learn to hunt like me. There is an air of calmness and surety. Gone are the looming games that people are forced to offer up their children for. Gone is the worry that some illegally acquired meat could end in a hanging or some other heinous punishment. There is something here in the tent with us that everyone feels but no one has to talk about. There is peace. And I'm not sure that I ever thought anyone in District 12 would feel that.

One evening, I am walking home fresh from a dinner with Meggie Evans, the wife of the head carpenter in town, Markeal, the same tall guy who first helped me with the bear. Meggie and some of her friends say that they are thinking of starting a recipe "potluck" club. I'd read about these before, in some District 2 newspaper on Peeta and My Victory tour. It never occurred to me that we would have anything like that here, but when Meggie asked me if I was willing to come tomorrow afternoon and contribute a recipe I agreed. It's not as if I am doing anything else that important these days. And who knows, it might even be fun.

Stomach full, mind occupied with coming up with some tasty recipe, most likely a stew, I'm feeling the closest to content that I can remember feeling in the last few months, as I make my way through the bricked pathway leading to my house.

I am almost at my door when I hear the screaming.

Fear pulses through me and I reach behind my back for the arrows that I keep always draped against my shoulders. Just in case. As I note that it was the sound of Haymitch's scream, the amount of time it takes me to run over and bound up his steps feels far too late.

_No!_

I already have my arrow pointing as I slide into the unlocked door easily. Survey the room, the arrow going in every direction that my eyes do, my feet silent but quick. My heart is quaking but my resolve keeps me moving swiftly. Haymitch Abernathy is all I have left and I don't plan on losing him to anything or anyone. His wailing continues before he begins moaning ferociously, "Help! Help!" and I rush toward the living room letting go of any pretense of a quiet entry.

"Haymitch!" I yell, hoping to distract the perpetrator so that they will turn towards my arrow and their own doom. I sling myself into the room, my fingers ready to let the arrow slip but I immediately recognize that instead of an intruder…Haymitch is surrounded by Camellia's children. Tugging his hair, crawling over his back, and keeping him pinned to the ground.

I am shaking as the little boy with the ruddy cheeks and the green eyes stares up me, fear gripping him as he lets out a low whimper. It is only now that I look down to see that my hands are barely gripping the silver arrow, which is pointing directly at the child's heart.


	9. Chapter 9

**9. Help Unwanted**

"What in the _hell_ are you doing?!" says Haymitch, leaping up and pushing my arrow down. I am still shaking, just thinking about what would have happened if I had let it go, pierced that innocent heart with my silver-tipped arrow.

The bow and arrow fall from my hands and I choke out "I-I-I th-th-thought…" Haymitch seems to be gathering understanding as he notices my shaking body and says slowly,

"My cries for help…"

Shaking his head, Haymitch guides me to the nearest chair, in the kitchen murmuring to the children that I was just continuing a game that he and I were playing before. That I didn't know it was over or that I forgot. Thinking about the Hunger Games I catch his double meaning. His wordless admonishment; "_This isn't the Hunger Games, Katniss. And you almost killed an innocent child, possibly two, because of your paranoia." _

When we are out of the children's earshot Haymitch says, quietly,

"Sorry, Kat. Niss." I hate the way he keeps breaking my name apart but I remind myself that it is on purpose. He is trying to get me to tell him that it's okay if he calls me Sweetheart again. I don't, I just stare over at the children. They seem to have forgotten me. Believing Haymitch about our game, they commence to playing their own with small wooden cars.

It is only now that I notice that the house is clean. No, more than clean: spotless. I look around the room shakily and see shelves that I didn't even know existed. A floor that I could've sworn was a deep brown has been scrubbed to near white. Camellia was right: I am amazed.

I ease out of my astonishment and remember Haymitch's question, the seriousness of what just happened and squeak out, "It's okay, I just…" I say, feeling a little better, my breathing steadier. "I just thought that you were in trouble."

"I know, but I'm not. It was just those damn kids." Haymitch is motioning towards them and rolling his eyes, but his pretense isn't fooling me. I saw the way he was playing with them. He likes them.

"How is Camellia?" I say, changing the subject because Haymitch and I have an unspoken understanding that if I don't call him out on his pretenses, then he won't call me out on mine.

"She's…great." His voice is gruff again, and I can tell that the annoyance is real now. "At least, the place is being well-kept." He muses. I glance around the immaculate room again and then stare at him twisting my lips into an unbelieving expression.

"You mean it's actually livable again." I say, because this is one pretense he won't get away with.

"It was always livable. You just didn't like the _way_ I lived." Haymitch argues and pushes back the chair, stands and walks over to the sink. "You want something to drink?" he asks, and I notice him pulling out a crystal clear glass. I hadn't noticed how parched I was until this moment.

"Water." I say quietly. He slides the glass in front of me and I drink it down, its' cool wetness relieving me of the last of my tension from moments earlier. _Everything is okay, no one was killed_. I think, closing my eyes for a moment and breathing deeply.

"So…when are we going to talk about it?" Haymitch asks and I open my eyes to see him staring at me with a question on his brows.

"Talk about what?" I ask, because I honestly have no idea.

"Your demons, Swee-…Kat. Niss. The fact that you spend most of your nights pacing back and forth and the rest of them waking from nightmares and screaming like a two-headed banshee."

I blush slightly, "You can hear me screaming…?" I ask timidly but he shakes his head motioning towards his cabinet of liquors.

"I just know the after-effects of the games, Katniss. I've been trying to quiet those nightmares over 20 years. Trying to drown my dreams with the alcohol. Or hadn't you noticed?" I had noticed, but I guess I don't really give his reasons for drinking much thought. Haymitch's aloof personality makes him seem so different from the rest of us. Almost inhuman. So that he would have anything to quiet other than the thirst for more liquor rarely crosses my mind.

"So what are you saying? That I should take up drinking?" I ask, thinking that I tried it once, but the hangover that I had was so sickening, along with the disappointment in Peeta's eyes, that I've never had another drink since. Never want another. I am only teasing Haymitch but he looks at me seriously.

"No…Never. What I'm saying is that I don't want you to end up like me. You still have everything going for you at this point. More than I ever had at your age, most of which includes complete and total freedom. Not to mention the love of your short and dangerous life living across the street from you. What I do want is for you to get some help, get your head together, and get the hell on with it." He says and then leaning in closer he adds sullenly "Before it's too late."

I feel so stupefied by Haymitch's statements that I am unsure how to respond. Especially to the remark that is so clearly about Peeta. I just sit quietly staring at the children playing mindlessly on the ground. I pay particular attention to the little boy with the green eyes who I almost killed.

My eyes travel over to Haymitch's liquor cabinet and I notice something different about it. Yes, the glass is shining with a freshly shined glimmer. Yes, the wood is now a shining mahogany. But aside from that is something that was never there before. Right in the center of the joint cabinet doors is a lock. A large silver lock obviously meant to protect those children on the floor. So that they never end up like Haymitch.

The rest of our talk is light and Haymitch doesn't mention much more about me needing help. The most he says is after asking me if I still talk to Dr. Aurelius, the therapist first appointed to me by District 13. To which I reply no and that he never really helped much anyway. Haymitch defends him by telling me that if it weren't for Dr. Aurelius, Peeta would have never been able to come back to District 12. To live alone. I silently bless his name.

I wait with Haymitch for Camellia to come home. Apparently, today was the first day he paid her and she went to town to shop for groceries. Haymitch mentions that he's heard about my hunting, about the feedings and the recipe exchanges among the women in town.

"The old Mockingjay is making a name for herself again." He laughs a little too heartily and I begin to worry that maybe those few sips of tea he claims to have been drinking, were sips of alcohol. But I calm myself because there is no smell. There is no liquor scent which means that he was being honest and there is no alcohol in his cup. I am just about to speak my amazement when Camellia bangs the door open with her back. Her arms are full of bags and I rush over to help her.

Camellia wears a thick grey dress, which matches her eyes and makes her wearied skin look lighter against its hue. She says "Town was hectic today!" and then she begins going on and on about her day. Her voice is quick and cheery as she details the mundane and it strikes me that this is why Haymitch seemed annoyed when he spoke about her earlier. It's as if she's found the switch to turn herself on but doesn't know how to turn herself off. At first I try to respond to some of her statements but she barrels through all of my starts and after a few moments I glance at Haymitch and know why; Camellia is not speaking to me, but to Haymitch.

Before I can offer to do so, Camellia directs Haymitch to put away the groceries and calls out to the children to go wash up for dinner. She's had a hen cooked in town, brought some bread and is going to warm a veggie stew, one of the Capitol-like cans.

Camellia looks over at me and as if recognizing me for the first time—perhaps she is—she beams, hugs me gently and chastises me for not coming over for supper sooner. "I invited you weeks ago!" she huffs. I nod but tell Camellia that I have been busy and she winks, saying she's heard all about it in town. She begins again her rapid speech and laughs with a chirping tone I hadn't known her capable of, while Haymitch says nothing but carefully empties the bags onto the counter. Haymitch then tries to put things away as she tells him again and again about the places that they should go. Finally, Camellia gives a loud sigh and shoos him out the kitchen to wait in the living room with the kids. I watch as Haymitch walks into the room and grabs up the little boy before taking his spot on the couch and plopping the child into his lap, as the girl laughs gleefully from the floor.

They all seem so comfortable with one another. Fit in so seamlessly that I suddenly feel like an outsider and before Camellia can ask much more than if I'm staying for dinner now, I tell her that I have to go. Before she can protest I am already on the other side of the door, breathing a sigh of relief at my escape.

_My bow and arrow! _I think too late turning to go back inside and retrieve them, when I see them being tossed from the window, Haymitch's face peering out at me, mouthing the words "Get Help."


	10. Chapter 10

**10. Roots**

I walk up my steps and immediately head for the kitchen. My shock of earlier fully gone, I recall what I was so preoccupied with before Haymitch's screams. It was the idea of preparing some signature recipe for the potluck tomorrow. I want whatever I cook to make everyone want more. I want it to be a real contribution; something that everyone in town will want to know how to cook.

I have pulled out almost every spice in the cabinets before I remember an old cookbook that I've seen my mother use before. I search through all the cabinets and find it. It is a large deep blue book with large loopy letters that say "Recipes" on the front and filled with recipes scrawled in my Mother's handwriting. I turn to the index on spices and gather any I have that match those in the book. Then I turn to the section on stews. When I am surrounded by meat, ingredients, spices and pots I begin.

I try rosemary, lemon and chicken. It is far too zesty. I try ground beef with cayenne and thyme, but the amount of thyme makes it taste like dirt. I try lamb and beef, pepper, oregano and garlic. It just tastes murky. Annoyed at my missteps, I begin to quickly flip through the pages when an odd-looking page catches my eye. The title and ingredients are written in long strokes that sweep widely. I recognize the hand writing to be my mother's. But as my eyes scan downward, the words on the page start to blur into messier letters and more static strokes and after a few moments I suddenly recognize the handwriting: it belongs to my father.

I hadn't noticed before this moment how numb I've been. Not feeling anything really. I suspect that I am no longer able to feel some things. But when I see my father's handwriting, think of how he and my mother loved each other. How much they both loved us, Prim and me, I cannot help but to feel a little wavering inside of me. And slowly it creeps up my insides until I am almost trembling as I focus back on the handwritten page.

I read each ingredient and tears cloud my eyes as I know with everything inside me that they were never able to make this meal while my father lived. I don't know that we ever had more than even two of these ingredients in the house when he was living. But I have them all. It's as if my parents wrote the recipe for Prim and me. As if they knew-or at least hoped-that one day we'd be able to prepare it. The idea makes me feel more than a little unsteady, but it gives me something I haven't had in a long while; something to hold onto.

I pull the ingredients out slowly. The onions, tomatoes, garlic, green peppers, beef chops, sea salt, carrots, and green beans. Finally, I glance at the bottom drawer of the fridge and think of the small package, the small brown package that Peeta first bought me so long ago, immediately after our Victory Tour, but before the Quell. After we'd agreed to try being friends, Peeta happened to see them once in the market and brought them to me, promised me he would always make sure I had them. I try to trust that Peeta kept his word as I open the drawer.

I was right, because sure enough, here they are. They look fairly fresh, so I know that he had to have bought these sometime recently, sometime since we've both been back in District 12. It occurs that Haymitch may have delivered them. Maybe even Greasy Sae seeing as she has a set of keys that I never took back. I let go of how they came to be here, and try to just be thankful that they are. I set the brown package on the counter and rip it all the way open. Out fall at least a dozen small, bluish katniss roots.

I wake up late in the morning and decide that I will try my hand at looking nice today. The sleep was restful, and I don't remember the dream, but I know that it wasn't bad because, again, I always remember the bad ones.

I try on the loose black pants that Cinna bought me upon one of his trips here. I pair it with a long sleeved yellow shirt that Effie surely stuffed in this closet along with all of the many dresses, jewelry, and shoes that I never wear. I think the fabric may be silk but it's very uncomfortable. Too tight near my bust. I take it off and put on another one. This one is a light blue with sleeves that stop at my elbows. The buttons are grotesque looking pearls, which I scratch to make sure they aren't real. When I'm satisfied that they aren't I survey myself. My hunting boots don't go well with this. I settle on a plain pair of black flats. One thing Effie never succeeded in was trying to get me to wear heels outside of the charades I played for the Capitol. Apparently, even Effie knew that was a battle she'd never win. I am satisfied with my hair after I tie it into a French braid that starts on the side of my head and curls down until my fire-damaged hair stops in a small tail at my neck.

I look into the mirror and try to see myself the way others have; as a desirable girl. A beautiful one, according to Peeta. I am not terrible to look at, but I have never seen much beauty in myself. Especially after everything I've done and all those whose blood still stains my hands, those whose names tick off my tongue endlessly for my counting game.

Not wanting the day to turn dark, I shake out the thoughts and walk down the stairs. There on the counter is the Katniss Stew, which turned out deliciously. So delicious, in fact, that I had to make the recipe twice just so that I'd have enough to take to the dinner today. I silently thank my parents for their gift, tell myself to call my mother when I get the chance. Then, I walk out the door and make my way gingerly down the stoned walk, undisturbed by either the sight of Peeta or the voice of Haymitch.

I am less than five steps into the square, when I feel someone's fingers locking around my arm. My breathe catches in surprise and I turn sharply dropping my stew, as I try unsuccessfully to wrest my arm away. I look up angrily and am greeted by the steely grey eyes of Gale.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:**

**To any and everyone who has been reading, reviewing or following in any capacity: Thank you SO much for your feedback! I never expected to have any followers, let alone 23, and I am so grateful to anyone who has taken the time out to review my story. I LOVE writing and I LOVE getting your feedback and even any questions, comments or criticism is welcome! I won't be posting again for maybe another week, but I hope everyone enjoys these two new chapters as much as I enjoyed writing them. Please review and follow if you like the story and to anyone who has: Again, my most GRACIOUS thanks!**

**JazsiLee**

**11. Unharnessed Power**

"Well, Katniss Everdeen," Gale says with a hardened smile "I see you've been making quite the name for yourself."

I have no idea nor any interest in what he means, all I can think about is the stew that I stayed up the whole night preparing. The stew that I look down and expect to see splattered all over the ground. Instead, I see that with his free hand Gale has caught it easily and is gripping the bottom of the container tightly just as his other hand grips me. I am at once relieved and incensed.

First, I snatch myself away from Gale, and then I yank the stew from his hands. I feel very protective over this soup that my parents drew in for me.

I stare at Gale, taking in his uniform. The exact same outfit from before only now it is a deep grey that I imagine it is to guard against the dust and dirt that his white suit no doubt succumbed to. G_ood. _I think, satisfied,_ He should've known better than the wear that white here to begin with_.

"What are you _doing_?" I spit out, glaring at him and I am reminded of that day weeks ago when I first asked him this. It seems as if that's all I've ever ask him now. All I'll ever want to know anytime I see his face.

"Funny: I was going to ask you the very same question." Gale grabs my arm again and my weak struggle is useless against him as he pulls me over to the side of one of the slightly constructed buildings, which is lined by a gate, releasing me forcefully beside the thin wooden wall.

Out of the sight of others, I feel the familiar anxiety of being in Gale's presence creeping through me. I know that it is illogical, but I can't help but to have a slight feeling of fear and distrust of the boy who likely built the bomb that killed my sister. Actually…it's probably not illogical at all.

I look up into Gale's face; his chin now budded with dark prickly hairs, proof that he hasn't shaved in maybe a week. _He really does look like a full-grown man now_. I think, _a stranger_. And I am again reminded that this isn't a person I know anymore.

I just stare at Gale, at first unwillingly allowing some of my anxiety to break forth in my face, before realizing that I have no reason to cower in his presence. I don't care if he is the Captain of the Guards. This is a person whose life I have saved. A person who's saved mine. We have no pretense of titles and unfamiliarity and so I begin to leer at him defiantly, though it occurs that I have no idea what it is that I am defying exactly.

Gale stares back at me, looking into my eyes, his eyes moving rapidly as if searching for something. His eyes widen and then he laughs a short, incredulous laugh.

"You…you don't even _know_? _Do you_? But then how could you?" He says and he is backing away from me, laughing harder in a way that sickens me; makes my defiance grow into a low anger at being the butt of his unexplained joke.

"Know what?" I ask between my teeth and I feel my free hand curling into a fist.

"What you've started! What you're inciting!" Gale says, and is now staring at me with a dumbfounded expression as if he's waiting for me to get his point but I don't. So he says calmly his expression now one of patience, "Katniss…the men and some of the kids are planning to start hunting now. They want to go into the woods and kill foxes, pheasants, squirrels…bears, even! Something about you taking one down; there's even talk of a "bear challenge". To see who can catch the biggest bear!" Gale's speech has become excited and distressed but I am still failing to fully understand.

"People…want to hunt?" I ask, feeling foolish as I mull it carefully. Who cares? "Well, it's not as if it's illegal anymore." I say, "Why should it matter?"

Gale is shaking his head, "Because, Katniss, the animals will all be extinct by the end of next winter. There are already so few of them left as it is and we're only in mid-summer. I know that you might not understand it, but there is a _reason_ the Capitol doled out the food in the way that they did."

I can't even believe what I'm hearing "You're defending the Capitol?! _You_, of all people?!" My hand is curling tightly again, and I feel the urge to lash out rising.

"No. No, Katniss." Gale says, stern yet softer, as he backs up and leans against the short fence adjacent to the wall I am backed against. "But, the Capitol always kept the main food supply, the meat, for itself. That being the case, the fact that there were only say, a thousand animals at any given time wasn't as important, because, officially, no one else was allowed to hunt them. The Capitol had their choice of deer, birds, fish…anything. And when the animals dwindled they reproduced and the Capitol still had their choice once again. But now that it's over? Now that the war is over and people are experiencing freedom like they've never had before? Human beings have the tendency to go overboard. They will soon start hunting not just for food, but for sport. And by the time they realize the problem with that, it will be _too_ late."

I don't want them to, but Gale's words have meaning. Make sense. I begin nodding but say quietly, thinking out loud. "But…the people need _more_ food; _better_ food, _better_ sustenance. That's the reason I started hunting for them in the first place."

Gale now wears a sympathetic look and there is a familiar gleam in his eyes. It's the same way he always looked before he said something romantic, or leaned forward to kiss me. That is the way he is looking at me now, and I know that it is out-of-place but I find myself blushing at his look, and glancing downward. I don't Gale looking at me this way anymore. In fact, I never want him to ever again.

Luckily, Gale straightens his face up quickly saying gently, "I know, Katniss. But there are other ways to get it to them than to work them up into a tizzy about hunting."

I feel insulted and my simmering anger rises again, spilling forth in my words, "I wasn't trying to work anyone into up anything! I was _trying _to help!"

"I know Katniss, I know. But sometimes…you just…" Gale shakes his head a light smile against his lips before finishing "You have to start thinking before you act. You have a responsibility to use your power wisely. You _have_ to Katniss. You don't have a choice anymore."

"My…power…?" I say, and just then I am back in my dining room on the train before the first Hunger Games, with Peeta and Haymitch and we are talking before our training session.

Peeta talks me up, my shooting skills, my tree climbing. He is falling all over himself to tell Haymitch all about me, insisting that I will survive over him. That I will get more sponsors than he does. Everything he says, I have an answer for, because I see no reason why he would downplay himself in such a way. Finally Peeta becomes frustrated, and then he is says something that seems to convey some understanding about me to Haymitch that I am not privy to. "She has no idea. The effect she can have."

I remember it. I recall Peeta saying it and not knowing what he meant. At the time, I imagined that he was saying people pitied me.

Later, after a trick with poisonous berries so as not to have to kill Peeta in the first Hunger Games, President Snow, was sure that I was being defiant towards him and the Capitol when I was only trying to survive. But, the people thought so too, as we discovered when we visited the various Districts. Eventually, people started rebelling. People started uprising. People started a war.

And then…

_I feel the wall turn hard against my back, gasp for breath as the recognition of destruction grips me and I am again in the Capitol, fighting my way through the pods and the death, trying to get somewhere safe. I feel hands wrapped tightly on both my arms. I see his face and vaguely hear him calling my name, but the sound is muffled against the sounds of the bombs dropping all around us. Why is he stopping me? Why is he holding me, when we should be running? I want Gale to stop it. To let go of me, so that we can get to Snow, so I begin to struggle against him._

Then I feel a light slap against my cheek.


	12. Chapter 12

**12. Plenty**

"Katniss?!" Gale says his voice nearing hysteria and it's as if my eyes have just opened. I blink at him, his eyes fearful, "Are you okay?" he asks, and as I recall where I really am I know that I must have zoned out, hidden inside of myself, like I did back during the first days in District 13. I steady my breathing, thinking clearer. An old technique rolls around in my head. I am certain that I am doing it wrong, but I can't help it. _My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am eighteen years old…I was in a war. Was._

"I'm fine." I say feeling slightly embarrassed and for a moment I get the feeling that Gale wants to pull me in and hug me and I feel disconcerted by not knowing if I would resist or not. His hands are still gripping my arms and I try not to say anything at first, because it's a familiar grip, this. It's as if my skin craves touch, no matter whose. But I won't allow it to go any further than the slight indulgence and I quickly level my head and remember where I am, who I am, who Gale was to me…and who he is now.

There are other reasons too: it won't do for people to see the Captain of the Guard and "The Mockingjay" in an out-of-sight corner behind a new building, "conspiring".

"I'm fine." I say again steadily and look down at Gale's hands. Gale immediately releases me without a word and backs up slowly, staring down at the ground apologetically. When he looks back up at me, I nod and he knows my meaning. _I really am okay_. This is still our way, Gale and I. No matter what has happened, no matter our relationship, we understand one another, even in silence. We always have.

"I'm sorry," I say, breaking the tense silence as I remember what he was telling me before I zoned out. "I wasn't trying to…I mean…I didn't know."

Gale plays it off well, and his voice is back to normal ignoring the fact that girl before may be slowly losing her mind. "It's fine, Katniss. It's not as if I haven't known since that first day. I should've spoken to you sooner; not let it go so far." Gale says gazing into the distance, before turning back toward me, his face now serious, as is his tone. "But now, it _has_ to stop. You have to call your friends and let them know that they can't hunt. They just can't. And just to make sure, let them know that you won't be hunting anymore either." It's clear to me in this instant, that Gale is one who's lost his mind.

"But, I _have_ to hunt!" I say shocked. "I mean, _you_ know that. It's all I have, now. I can't just stop!"

"Katniss?" Gale murmurs softly, his voice is a low whisper as if someone is suddenly listening "I do know that. We just don't want the townspeople knowing that." _Oh._ I nod, understanding. If I want to keep it for myself, then I'll have to hunt in secret. _Alright then,_ I think. I've done it before, I can do it again.

We are quiet now. I am somewhat comfortable with the stated compromise before I remember. "But, what about the others…? I told you that the only reason I started hunting was so that the people would have better meat and sustenance. They look so sickly and malnourished and I can't stomach it any longer. I can't just forget about them."

"And I told you that there are other ways to get them that food." Gale says.

"But…I don't know any other way." I say and I feel pathetic as I always do when I am missing something that everyone else seems to think should be right in front of me.

"Well Catnip," Gale says, his voice is teasing his eyes familiarly playful, "It's not as if you have a direct line to Secretary of Communications Heavensbee, or his trusted adviser Professor Beetee, for that matter. Or even the esteemed "Dr." Everdeen who's directing the building of the new Capitol hospital." And as he finishes his honest statement, I can't help but to smile, in spite of myself.

"So they would listen then, if I told them to send healthier food?" I ask, slowly, knowingly.

"And books and medicine and anything. Yes, Katniss. They've been eagerly awaiting your call for the last month and a half." I think about the few awkward conversations I've had on the phone with my mother and say obstinately, "But…" and my voice trails off.

"But what?" Gale asks expectantly.

"…I hate using the phone." I finish and Gale gives me a disbelieving look that says the same thing that I begin to think: compared to the animals becoming extinct, the District 12 townspeople in poor health and in danger of dying, this is such a selfish, insignificant and even silly statement.

And for the first time in nearly a year, Gale and I burst into a simultaneous fit of laughter.

That I wasn't even aware that anyone was thinking of trying to hunt really is a testament to the fact that although now initiated into their lives, I am still an outsider to District 12's residents. They welcome me in, but they still keep me at arm's length and it's an odd sensation to feel slightly hurt by it.

For the first time, I begin to wonder if this slighted pain is how I've made others feel. I've heard more than once that I don't let people in. _I didn't let him in_, I think and Peeta's faces flashes before me. It wasn't on purpose really. I wore my mask of indifference so long that it became an unconscious part of me. Not letting anyone in was just the unfortunate side effect of not being able to trust myself to voice my thoughts and in turn not trusting others. Not wanting anyone to know what I really felt, whenever I felt it. I guess I'll have to work on that.

Last night was a necessary first step I realize, as I grip the warm soup. Seeing the family recipe seemed to thaw something inside of me and I cannot tell if it is good or bad, but I have the feeling that I may begin to feel things more deeply sooner now than before.

Later that evening, in the town hall tent, the majority of the people are surprisingly cooperative and understanding when I tell them about what Gale told me. Of course I use his official title, telling them that the "Captain of the Guards" is trying to make sure that we understand the severity of the limited resources now that everyone is going to be getting equal sustenance.

There are a few dissenters, people saying that the Capitol shouldn't still be living like kings while we sit around and scrape by on the crumbs. But the others quiet them, remarking that they were doing fine and eating "well" even before I began hunting.

I then tell them all about how I am going to speak to the people in the Capitol tonight, and make sure that they start sending us more hearty food instead of the sweets. This invites a low moan throughout the tent, but I remind them that I will also be getting flour, sugar and other baking goods. I tell them that our cooking sessions have inspired and reminded me that we can cook and bake a lot of our own goods here. As I speak I think, of course, of Peeta.

With my announcement everyone cheers. And by the end of the evening everyone seems in good spirits and they laugh and joke and talk like before. My stew was a big hit and I tasted at least 4 others that caused my mouth to water after every spoon. Our lunch melted away, became more of a supper at around 6. It's fine, because there are so many different recipes that the food spilled over into the evening.

At the end of it all, Markeal stands up holding up his glass "To Katniss!" He yells.

Before they can cheer for me, however, I stand up, waving my arms frantically saying, "No! No!" They all begin looking at me like I'm crazy, but I don't want them toasting to me. I don't want them trying to keep me as their Mockingjay and shape me into some living legend that I am not. But, I won't say this out loud of course. Instead, I hold my own glass high, trying to shrug off my panic as excitement and say. "To…to…" glancing around at the expectant faces, my mind betraying me, blank. _What will they drink to…what will District 12 want to…_and as it enters my mind, I shout "To the health of District 12!"

"To the health of District 12!" They all cheer and every one of them drinks down the last of the fine wine that they will receive.

At home, after the awkward introduction of my first call to Plutarch, I am left trying to cram it all in. Monia wanted rabbit, and Hitori wanted Cake flour. Geggia wants deer and her children like steak. Markeal and Meggie wanted venison, the dried kind that keeps. I try my best to mention all the different kinds of meats without mentioning anyone by name. Without sounding like I am reading from a wish list. But it's difficult reading the scribbled and harried handwriting of the various District 12 townspeople.

Plutarch is surprisingly complacent.

"We have plenty!" He yells in his upbeat voice and I imagine the round man with his newly dyed and muted blonde hair. He's one of those Capitol people who it was always difficult to hate. Though I must admit I tried. Now, I can imagine him as a favorite teacher in our old school, with his enthusiastic nature and colorful characterization. "They always have food here! And what most don't know is that some of it is modified. A lot of it actually. Cloned sheep and cows and pigs. But we're trying to weed that out. Dr. Everdeen says it's not very healthy, you know!" at the mention of my mother, I smile.

It's been so long since I've spoken with my Mother, but from what I can tell, from the small amount of the Effie interview I saw on television when she spoke about her plans to open a hospital in the Capitol, free to all the war wounded, she looks well. Seems in her element.

"Anyway, Yes! Captain Hawthorne informed me that you would be calling so I was expecting this. The requested increase in meats and decrease in treats," Plutarch pauses as if waiting for me to catch his rhyme and laugh. I do laugh lightly and then satisfied he continues, "It will begin immediately!" he finishes and I hear him begin shouting out various orders to I don't know who.

By the time Plutarch is done, he tells me that we will have a large store of meat by late morning. "Be in your square by 9 am if you want to watch what I will do!" he yells and doesn't even say goodbye before I hear the odd clicking of the phone.

I rest fairly peacefully this night, the ghosts staying in the real world left behind by my counting game. I lay in Prim's arms as she rocks me gently through the darkness.

In the morning, I can't get to the square fast enough and my quick jog becomes a sprint until I am standing in the center, the same place where I first drug my large barrow of meat. I look at the clock on the small makeshift tower and it reads 8:58. _I am not too late_.

I think about Markeal and Meggie and I want them to come out of their house so that they can watch the package come down too. Glancing around however, I realize that I am not really sure where anyone lives. I look around at the tent homes and remember that Gale called them my "friends". But are they really? I guess I can say they are acquaintances, but my knowledge ends outside of the kind of foods that they like to eat.

"…I don't know what your favorite color is?" Peeta had said, acknowledging that if we were going to take a shot at being friends we should at least know the basic things. He was right. In this very moment, I realize that I don't know anyone on this earth's favorite color, except for Peeta Mellark's. Orange. _Sunset orange_, I think as I look around at the dimming light. But…

…the shadow surrounding me makes no sense as the sunset isn't for another 12 hours.

Suddenly, the sound of the loud bell that signifies the coming of Capitol packages disrupts my thinking and I look overhead and see that there is a giant box…almost the size of the small square fountain I am standing beside, swiftly dropping toward me, threatening to crush me.

I stand, staring up at the bottom of the box as an intense and familiar panic overcomes me and suddenly…

…I am back in the war.

_We are in District 8, bombs dropping all around. One of them has destroyed the hospital to my left and I feel helpless. Though I am still looking up, can still see the brown bottom of a box, hear the sound of people screaming, I am frozen, my legs unmoving as the box descends, sure to crush me._

I feel myself being knocked down forcefully, the move jarring me back into the present, fully. For a moment I feel astonished that the box, no doubt nearly a ton, hasn't killed me on impact.

Then I feel the humanness of breathing against my skin. The feeling of someone hovering over me protectively, their scraped arm against the stoned ground, which is painful against my turned face. My breathing comes out ragged and slow when I see the hand that is so like my own bearing down against the cobble.

A hand scarred by fire.

Peeta.


End file.
